When was the last time you were truly happy? When was the last time you took ear to listen to the faint whispers of your heart? Do you still remember how to laugh without cruelty or to smile without malice?
When I look at you, I can still see your reflection, but directly I cannot see your face. You have changed and such a change that is quite deceitful. Sometimes, I think I can see you looking back, wide-eyed and dreamy, happy and content. But like the passing of clouds shielding the sun, so swiftly you put up your guards and I see someone else altogether.
I wish people could understand you. I wish they can see the fragile soul that hides behind the tough and shallow exterior you use to keep yourself from all the threats of pain. I wish they can see the drowning shadows that lurk behind the blinding smile, the ever consuming jaws of doubt that lingers behind every sure and graceful stance. I wonder if they ever realize that every time you strut all polished and dressed to the nines is when you are actually at your lowest, the heart barely able to wheeze out the life you so magnificently pretend to have.
It is heartbreaking to know that the people who claim to love you doesn't know you, nor do they see you in the light where you truly shine. It is haunting to hear you faithfully cry out, hoping that anyone could hear but as always, you're met with the harsh truth that nobody cares. You have so many questions and so many answers yet people just cannot be bothered to ever listen. And so for every song you mutely sing, you die and in the ashes rises another you, still the same yet not entirely so. Someone harsher, colder and emptier rises in the wake of your death.
If they could only see the beauty in which everything is seen by you, breathe the emotions people only feel and taste the smell and color s of everything taken for granted, then perhaps they'll understand why you are at your best and truest when you cry. And maybe, if I only know you well enough, then I could finally understand why you always find the beauty in the brokenness and desperation of could-have-beens; why you always see the bliss in the madness of pain.